VSSE Training
by speccyboy
Summary: VSSE Training seen from the perspective of two new recruits - one an eccentric, authority-hating Italian, the other a cynical, distrustful Russian. Will they graduate as friends or will their conflicting personae cost them their future? Read and review. :)
**VSSE Training**

 **A Time Crisis fan fiction**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing (except my OCs)**

 **Day 1**

* * *

 **SANDRO PESETA**

Well, here I am at the VSSE Training Facility in God knows where (they wouldn't tell me the exact location – these people are almost pathological non-disclosure fetishists).

It feels weird having very little technology to help me cope with my training as a super-secret save-the-world-from-apocalypse-on-a-regular-basis agent of retribution. At

least they were kind enough to let me write my daily journal entries of what kind of hell I am going through in order to become one of them – it's like the world's most

badass and most secretive fraternity. No offence, MIB, but we do have more fun than you. Plus, we don't have to wear the same, plain-as-fuck uniform. It reminds me of when I

was 10 and I outgrew my school uniform and refused to get another one because it undermined my right to free expression, causing all the teachers (bar one) to bitch at me.

Anyway, upon arrival, I was assigned a partner – a true product of the Soviet Union – his name is Yakov Skulachev, and he looks like a reject from a Soviet propaganda film

with that stupid fucking porno moustache of his. He doesn't have much of a sense of humour. I tried telling him my World War 2 joke and he just raised an eyebrow before

cracking a slight, almost imperceptible, smirk. God, if this is the guy with whom I am going to have to share a bunk for a whole bloody week, then I am going to be tortured

both physically and mentally. I only hope we don't have to shower together with all the other recruits. Anyway, today's training was pretty simple shit – aiming and shooting,

breaching and entering rooms, nothing I would call adrenaline-surging action. I got yelled at by the officer in charge for holding my pistol with my left hand instead of my

right. I can't help it if I'm a bloody southpaw. Yakov and I were introduced to our superior – his name is Richard Miller. He looks safe enough. Apparently, he is the only

one qualified enough to work alone, having performed a solo rescue mission that would make John McClane blush. He even got the girl. Lucky bastard. Anyway, after the day's

training, we were given codenames: Yakov got a really badass one – "Sapphire Phoenix". I got a slightly less awesome one, but it's pretty cool nonetheless – "Ruby Ostrich" –

probably because I ran like an ostrich racing to get to the shitter after supper. Seriously, what DO they put in the food? I was stuck in the cubicle for almost 2 hours.

Anyway, I've got some time now to rest and relax before the lights go out and it's another day of neo-Saló bullshit. One of the female recruits has been eyeing me up – I have

to admit, she's quite attractive, with her golden skin and black hair and blue eyes. Her name's Yuki Seimitsu. Single, my age AND Japanese – what a combo! Given the history

between our countries, I feel confident in saying that I've got more than a clear shot with her. Now I know what I'm going to be thinking about when I doze off tonight, even

though VSSE policy discourages recruits and agents dating, but fuck that shit, I can't control how I feel – I like her. Now, if only I can find a language course to brush up

on my Japanese, it would be another string to my bow, because I don't think she speaks Italian. I need to sign off now – lights are about to go out.

 **SP.**

* * *

 **YAKOV SKULACHEV**

Just as I feared, I have been sent to the VSSE Training Facility as a punishment for my failed grand larceny. If only I had worked alone and not trusted my associate, who

presumably left me to burn in the fires of Hell. €100 Million – I could have used that money to investigate and clean up the European Union, but instead, here I am with a

partner I don't even need – a slightly temperamental and eccentric Italian named Sandro Peseta. He appears to have a consistent track record of ending up on the receiving end

of nearly every officer's tirades, whether they are due to his lack of normality or his apparently anti-authoritarian persona I do not know. He seems to have an affinity for

interacting with the female recruits, so much so that I have had to lie to him that most of them are lesbians in order to get him to focus. I will admit that he does have some

uses, such as being the fool and entertainer when necessary, and he is capable of being serious and committed, a feat which surprised even me. I suspect that this is going to be

one of those kinds of relationships where initial hostilities will gradually develop into reluctant respect and eventually culminate into a fire-forged friendship, just like in a moronic

Hollywood movie characterised by constant explosions, multiple gunshot entry wounds and repetitive profanities with multitudes of orgies. I met our superior, Richard Miller,

codenamed "Angel", and rightly so, being the sole agent authorised to do things his way. Sandro's reply was rather curt, barely polite, although honest:

"Fuck authority – a man's

got to do what a man's got to do. If my partner has to take a shit, then do I have to go with him and hold his hand while he does it and then wipe his arse with VSSE-issue

sandpaper?"

Sandro's shenanigans on the shooting range today met mixed reactions – he had the audacity to combine his shots into a crucifix shape. I did warn him about this

not being a game and he had to focus on the task at hand. His reply?

"When we go into action, I'm going to personally nail Wild Dog to the fucking cross myself."

God help me. I was able to pull away from my slightly buffoonish partner by indulging in a game of poker with some of the other recruits, and now his incessant typing is driving

me to insanity. I wish I had not unloaded and decocked my sidearm – I would have taken great pleasure in silencing him with a well-placed 9mm bullet to each crooked digit on

his elongated hands (How long has he been typing, anyway? His hands look unnatural!). Tomorrow looks like a logical continuation – hostage negotiation followed by vehicular

training. I only hope I can survive long enough to keep both Sandro and myself sane.

 **YS.**


End file.
